


The One Where They Go to A Renaissance Fair

by fartschool69



Category: Silicon Valley (TV)
Genre: Drunken Kissing, M/M, Two Giant Dorks In Love, angery richard, clueless richard, dubcon because drunk, eventual handjobs, feat. brian blessed, historical accuracy is important, some internalized homophobia but that's deeply canon, typical Jared childhood trauma, typical anal Richard
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-03-06
Updated: 2018-03-20
Packaged: 2019-03-27 15:14:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 6,773
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13883526
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fartschool69/pseuds/fartschool69
Summary: Two dorks go to a renaissance fair. Hijinks ensue.





	1. The Part Where Richard Has An Extra Ticket

**Author's Note:**

> It’s been years. Literal years since I’ve plucked the keys of writing smut about other people’s personas. But here I am again, at the seat of my own destruction. Is it shameful to be writing fanfiction about a half-hour HBO comedy show concerning four very nerdy men working in the tech business, who would in no means be benefitted by this? Yes. Am I ashamed? Yes. Will that prevent from doing so and will I advance the genre to new and exciting heights? No. It could be a lot worse. I could be writing about anime characters doing it in the middle of the Arab Spring. 
> 
> Takes place sometime in season 4, because Bighead is here and Dinesh is looking at dicks.

“Fuck ** _,_** _fuck”_ Richard says to himself as he taps the red end call button on his screen. More specifically, fuck Andy for cancelling his flight, fuck the Texas school systems for canceling school because it was too cold, fuck them for rescheduling the makeup days to this weekend, and most importantly, fuck Andy for starting a family in fucking El Paso as a goddamn history teacher. Fuck the Alamo too, he guesses.

Richard slides the door from the porch where he was taking the call and enters the house, shoulders hunched and arms crossed. Jared, working on business sheets, immediately looks up at him with the eyes of an attentive bird, even cocking his head, ever faithful. Gilfoyle, whose screen is mostly covered in jargons of code except for a small Google Chrome window showing a Facebook page for a Satanist cookbook, and Dinesh, whose face contorts as he switches between Periscope dickpics and clickbaited articles on celebrity nip slips, give Richard a quick glance over and decide to brace themselves for one of Richard’s many moods. 

Richard skids into his seat and says, “Since apparently, the Texas school system cannot handle slight weather inclinations, my friend from college Andy will not be attending the Renaissance Fair with me this weekend. So, I have an extra ticket if anyone would like to attend a weekend of mead-filled 14th century fun.”

“Hard pass,” Gilfoyle deadpans. “The Renaissance becomes a lot less fun when you remember the witch hunts and religious wars resulting in thousands of deaths caused by the unjust Christianization of Europe.”

“Yeah, I’m gonna have to pass too, on the account of not being a giant dork,” Dinesh smirks.

Gilfoyle quickly clicks over to another tab. “Says here all you have going on is a ‘Ceramics for One’ class.” 

Dinesh quickly turns over, enraged, saying “okay, number one, how the hell do you have that information, and number two, it’s a great means for meeting single women.”

“You’re not Patrick Swayze,” Gilfoyle retorts.

Jared pipes in. “I’ll go, Richard,” he offers. “I’d have to move around my lunch date with Gertude and Leslie, but I’m sure I can make it!”

Half of Richard’s lips turn up, swiveling to see the eager smile and lightness on Jared’s face. He nods, says “Alright, sounds great, Jared.” He’d be lying if he hadn’t at least half-expected Jared to take him up on the offer, although he does suspect Gilfoyle has an actual custom suit of armor.

“I must confess, though, that I’ve never been to a renaissance fair before. Ooh, the idea just sounds splendiferous! Will there be—lords and ladies from trips from across the great sea?”

He knows indulging Jared doesn’t typically have the best outcomes, but he can’t help himself. “There will be—lords and ladies and barons and viscounts and marquises and dukes, my liege,” he says, giggling and taking on a slight accent. Jared leans in, giggles too. 

Erlich suddenly emerges from the back bedroom along with a cloud of smoke and an ornate pipe twiddling in his hands. “Did I hear talk from yonder of a fête of Renaissance proportions?”

Richard quickly spins around and says, “Too late Erlich, Jared’s already going.”

“Curses!” He swears, even though it’s really not a swear. Erlich focuses his reddened eyes on Jared, puffing out his chest and zeroing in on his hatred for this depressed crane of a human. “And would this Jabroni know of the pleasures of the rebirthing of a culture more than myself, a renowned savant of all things lordly?”

 “Actually, I’ve never been, although I did take a class at Vassar on late 17th-century texts written by disabled and sickly royalty.”

Erlich scoffs, mostly confused by what he just said. “I’m not even going to dignify that with a response,” he huffs, and Richard bites his tongue in an urge to correct him, _actually, the late 1600s would barely be considered the Renaissance in this context,_ but resists because he knows it would only incite Erlich.

As Erlich walks over into the kitchen, Bighead shuffles over from the couch, inquiring the guys about the logistics of a utilitarian potato gun, and Richard shakes his head, preferring the mountains of coding he has to do over potato equations. He knows because he’s budgeted for this vacation months in advance (despite not knowing where he’d be in those months, but someone had told him that making plans for the future can give one a sense of responsibility and well-being) that he’s gotta get as much code done as possible. That, and the normal ball-busting amount of stress he’s had hanging over him for, well, years now.

 But Jared turns to him, still incensed by the weekend away, deciding to take an opportunity to discuss the details. “So, what can I expect from a Renaissance Fair?”

And Richard can’t help himself despite the stress and the fact that talking about nerdy things to a nerdier person than you makes you like, so much nerdier, and more likely to never get laid again, and the fact that he’s Jared and he’s weird but he’s also the person he spends the most time with in this incubated hellhole, and talking to him can be really nice, and Jared’s really nice to Richard and makes him feel nice and has nice eyes and does a really good job on the business end of things, even if he did pay for all those fake users and has an unbelievably tragic past. He puts his elbow in Jared’s space. “It’s gonna be really cool, um, the one we’re going to is in Southern California and is recognized around the world for having the most accurate displays of medieval society, they like, get it down to the structural level, like they get real medieval professors to come and build the tents and the arenas, and it’s actually really cool how the construction process works because of the limited technology they had on hand, and--“

And a lot of what Richard’s saying goes right over Jared’s head, but he’s happy to watch Richard bring light to every word that comes out of his beautiful mouth.


	2. The Part Where Richard Sees Jared's Buttocks

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I promise, it's not as sexual as it seems.

It’s Saturday, and Richard is sitting in his full medieval garb at his desk chair, cleaning up one particularly tough area of code. He taps his leather slippers of his golden hose, hoping his nervous rhythm will solve this contentious string of variables. Over his tunic, he’s wearing a handmade (and finely paid for) red houppelande, which drapes dramatically over his arms and skirts just to his knees, decorated with elaborate cuts on the sleeves and buttons going up the front. It’s tied off at the waist with a roped belt, and complemented with a matching feather cap that the vendor Richard bought it from insisted he take. Usually, Richard would limit technology for at least 6 hours before leaving for the fair just to really get into the spirit and he’s annoyed that he can’t.

Someone knocks on his door. “Come in,” Richard says without looking away from his screen.

Jared swings open the door and is standing there in a full-on nineteenth century suit, grinning broadly. It’s a grey sports jacket that tails out to the back, nearly to the floor, beneath that a wildly ruffled shirt. There’s also the high-waisted slim pants that fit Jared perfectly—the whole outfit fits eerily. Of course there’s a bow tie, polished to the nines shoes, gloves, and goddamn it, he even got a cane. Richard stares, dumbstruck, eyes pouring over Jared’s cock-hipped pose, his meticulously slicked back hair under a top hat, him even twirling the cane with a fucking—is that a fucking snake on the top? He looks good, but too good, like the wrong kind of good, like the kind of good that would fuck up Richard’s day—

“Jared, what the fuck are you wearing.”

“Oh, this, my good gentleman?” He says, examining the fabric as if he’d never seen it before. “Why, it is only my finest vestments.” Oh god, he winks.

Richard sigh, and rubs his temples. “I know you’ve never been to a RenFair before, but like, do you even know anything about medieval clothing? Or the Renaissance at all?”

Jared frowns, aware that he’s made a grave mistake. “Well, technically, there were many renaissances, even in Europe. Some would even consider the 19th century to be a period of technological and industrial renaissance, which I thought you might appreciate…”

“Jesus Jared, it’s THE goddamn Renaissance. Did you listen to any part of what I was saying or were you too busy thinking about fucking—I don’t know—Oscar Wilde?”

Actually, a few choice lines of Wilde did float through Jared’s head when Richard was talking, but that was neither here nor there. “You mostly explained the mechanics of medieval castle building and the debate over jousting sword techniques; you didn’t really specify clothes. Besides, this was the oldest period costume I could get.” Jared swallows and looks at the ground.

“Well, Jared, wrong period.” Richard rolls his eyes and shuffles at his awkwardness. “You’re not going to the RenFair in that, looking like a fucking—dandy,” Richard laughs suddenly and wonders where it came from. 

“Well, what would you suggest?”

His face scrunches, then his eyebrows shoot up. “It might not be the exact materials, but we can use the potato sacks Gilfoyle and Dinesh are using for Bighead’s potato gun.” Outside, on the other side of the pool, Gilfoyle is engineering a highly lethal gun device that he tests with marshmallows while Dinesh fusses over his mechanics, and Bighead scratches his head over the sheer amount of potatoes he ordered. 

Jared nods, and says “Well, the funeral director did tell me he would give me half back if I returned the suit within the hour. And I’d have to get some protection for my nipples, but that’ll work!”

Richard contorts his face in confusion, and decides not to address any of that. “I’ll go get the sack,” he says and grimaces at the word. 

After dumping out the potatoes wordlessly (Gilfoyle adds, “You’re right, Richard, it is time to fuck the Irish over once again,”) he returns to his room, sack in hand, and opens the door without knocking.

That’s how he found Jared in the middle of slipping his pants off, full ass moon exposed to Richard. He already has his shirt off too, and so Richard sees his smooth slender backside as well. He feels like he’s somehow caught, and tries not to imagine the other side of Jared’s back in detail. Both men give a startled “Bwah!” and "Eep!" of surprise before Richard slams the door.

“Richard?” 

“Yep.”

“Um, potato sack, please.”

Richard opens the door, head tucked away from view, and tosses in the empty sack.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The porn will come LATER, you horny fucks. I know y'all saw the explicit rating and were ready to crank one out or save this for the spank bank, but I actually prefer a little something called CHARACTER DEVELOPMENT. You want to see two beautifully well-rounded dynamic interesting relatable identifiable characters fuck their brains out, which is why you /read/ porn, not watch it.
> 
> Also I don't care if it's out-of-character or unrealistic for Jared to not know anything about medieval fashion, I wanted to see him in a Victorian suit.


	3. The Part Where Jared Gets Pantsed

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gonna use this space to give a slight warning for brief ableist slurs in this one buddies.

 After a quick trip to the funeral home, Jared and Richard get on the road down to The Original Renaissance Pleasure Faire in Irwindale. It’s nearly a six-hour drive, and both guys have their choice of audio—Jared with his Prairie Home Companion, and Richard with his hour of silence after Jared said Radiohead was “too weird” for him. (“It was just _OK Computer_ , it wasn’t even _Kid A_ or _Amnesiac_.”)

But they arrive a little past two, and the fair is in full swing, the crowd compiled of families, bored 20-somethings, LARPers, and LARPing families.  It has that familiar outdoor festival smell of undercooked hotdogs, latrines, and nerd body odor, but Richard has the biggest grin on his face as he presents the ticket-teller with his prepaid billets. “Just—look at everything!” he exclaims, hands moving and clapping with excitement. “The structural integrity of those bastions is accurate to a T, and although there certainly wouldn’t be this much purple, and they even have someone chopping live fur!”

The taxidermy outside the shop was just for display, of course, but Jared can’t help but being giddy along with his comrade. He loves seeing Richard happy for once and not stressed out over multiple company crises, and he wants to prolong and enjoy it as much as he can. He puts on an accent. “Would it benefit you, my liege, if we were to converse in thine olde speak for the moments present?”

Richard grins so wide it looks like his mouth might fall off his face. “I am of the highest agreement, _my liege_ ,” Richard responds, not even caring how dumb they might sound.

They continue to giggle in medieval phrases to the best of their ability, eventually dropping it as they weave through a particularly tight portion of the crowd enjoying a lone but impressive fiddle player. Richard, crammed behind Jared, didn’t notice how short the potato rucksack came down to on taffy-stretched Jared, barely covering his (recently viewed) ass. He thinks he can even see the shadow of dickballs flapping in the front, and the thought makes him shudder. He didn’t notice it in the car because Jared had his luggage on his lap, which they dropped off at the hotel. Once they exit the congestion of the crowd, Richard works himself up to ask, “Uh, Jared, are you wearing any underwear?”

Jared looks forlorn. “I thought it might upset the historical integrity of the outfit.”

“Um, I’m pretty sure underwear was an important part of medieval attire. Also, there are children here.”

Jared looks down by his knees and realizes a couple small children have an unfortunate viewpoint. He widens his eyes and shakes his head. “Oh, oh no! Well, we don’t want to traumatize any children. I certainly would not want the burdens of my youth to beset anyone else.”

“Uh, yeah, well one of the best parts about Renaissance Faires is that they sell clothing. Like right here,” Richard notes, and they both veer off into a small tent filled with various period garments 

“Good morrow, my fair merchant!” Richard says, greeting the vendor. “May I inquire to ask if you possess any fine under- _wares_?”

The vendor looks up from his magazine. “What.”

Richard is annoyed by his disruption of medieval realism, but continues anyways. “I was pondering if your fine shoppe carried any mannish undergarments, for my dear impoverished companion here.” Jared gives a small wave.

The shopkeep raises an eyebrow. “That’s kind of an odd request. You might need to go to the shop across the street for that.”

Richard turns to where he’s pointing and sees—well, armory wouldn’t be quite the right word for it, but they certainly do have a lot of chains. And whips. And underwear, but the wrong kind.

“I don’t think that will be necessary,” Richard shakes his head, preferring not to think about the implications of entering _The Chambermaid’s Dungeon._ “Don’t you have any simple breeches here? Loincloths? Anything?”

The shopkeep puts down his magazine and slowly wanders his head around the room. “For loincloths you’re gonna have to go across the street, but we do have some britches in stock.”

“Okay,” Richard says as the vendor picks up his magazine again. They both wait in silence before Richard realizes he need to say something. “Are you gonna tell us where they are?”

“Behind the cloaks but before the cauls,” the shopkeep flippantly says, waving them away.

Richard grumbles but they find the breeches, and there’s a dressing room where Jared can try on them on, all of which are too short. They try and find an extra-large, which they do after almost tearing the entire shelf apart, but the waistband practically slides to the floor and the hem is _still_ too short. They end up getting a medium and go to pay the vendor for the pants.

“So, it didn’t seem to have a pricetag, ah, how much are you asking?” Richard asks.

The vendor looks them over. He definitely noticed the mess they made of the display. “$50,” he says.

“I’m sorry, _what_?” Richard exclaims. “$50 goddamn dollars? For a fucking—poorly sewn piece of linen? What the hell kind of shop do you think you— you think you _run_?” He feels himself getting heated, and swallows a breath.

Thankfully, Jared steps in. “Richard, let me handle this,” he says, and gently pushes Richard aside.

“From what I understand, this is a bartering institution, so perhaps we can strike up a more favorable deal?  Would $30 be more reasonable?”

The shopkeep looks him over once again, even less impressed. “$60.” He says. “And it goes up to $70 if your boyfriend blows a gasket.”

Richard almost does blow a gasket, and, shaking his faster and faster head, stammers “What? What are you talking about? That’s crazy. That’s not. It’s not—we’re not—I’m not—and even if we were, which we’re not, I’d be—” 

Mercifully, Jared cuts him off. “Relationship status aside, you must agree that $70 is a bit unreasonable. Perhaps we can do a less monetary trade? I have in my wallet,” and he takes his wallet, which Richard can only worry where he got it from, “A Bertucci’s gift card, two for the Cheesecake Factory, a membership card to an exclusive northern Californian aviary club, a lock of Stevie Nick’s hair, several rare Canadian coins, the only photo of my mother—”

“That.” The shopkeeper stops him. “Yeah, I’ll take that. And everything else you said.”

Jared flushes whiter, and this time he stammers, “A-actually, although you’d be getting a good deal for everything else, the picture of my mother is the only known photo I have of her and possibly ever, given she was raised in a Quaker commune where photography was punishable by banishment which is how she got out, and you know it’s unkind to take things like these from an orphan—”

“The picture of your mother,” the shopkeep says, “or no dice.”

Jared stares downward, and there is a long moment of silence. Richard debates whether to put his hand on Jared’s shoulder, but doesn’t want that asshole to think anything else of it (nor does he.) Jared finally looks up and, taking a deep breath in, says, “I suppose if it prevents even one child from seeing the uncouth and upsetting sight of the male genitalia, then it’s worth it.” He holds the photo of his mother in hands, gazing sadly at it. 

“Hey,” Richard says, taking a measured step closer. “We can always take a photo of it, I wasn’t going to but I brought my phone in, I can start it up and—”

 “Nope. No photos,” the shopkeep says, and folds his hand over rapidly. “Hand it over.”

Along with the various other wallet artifacts, Jared regretfully hands over the picture and the two walk out of the shop, freshly pantsed but defeated. Richard feels like he could have done more, after all, even $100 dollars would have been better spent to keep the picture of his mother, but he also feels that would have made the situation worse. He thinks—no, truly realizes, in that moment, how giving Jared really is.

“Hey, man, I’m really sorry about what happened back there. That guy was a dick,” says Richard, trying his hardest to console.

“It’s okay,” Jared sighs. “Life’s possessions are fleeting anyways, and maybe I’ll find her again in the pocket of a recently deceased great-aunt. I should have around fourteen of those, anyway.”

Okay, so he really doesn’t want to talk about Jared’s mom or whatever other series of unfortunate events that was Jared’s childhood. They wander the fair in some silence until Richard notices a flute player trying to pipe out a tune. He’s not very good, which is why he’s in the less traveled corners behind a particularly sad petting zoo, but Richard smiles and nudges Jared.

“You know, I actually came up with the idea of Pied Piper at a RenFair.”

Jared perks up. “Richard, you’ve never told me this story before.”

“Yeah, well, it’s kind of embarrassing. I went to a lot of these in high school with my friend Andy and my parents, and we would wander around pretending to be mages and cast spells on people and dumb stuff like that. Anyways, there were always these musicians there, and they were really bad and we would always heckle them or whatever. And one day this one guy—I think he was playing an oboe or something—but he played something that I swear, sounded exactly like ‘Stairway to Heaven’, and then Andy and I started arguing over historical accuracy and the possibility of a medieval jester playing the exact notes of ‘Stairway to Heaven’ and would people in our world know what it was and call him out for being a fake and a copycat and playing Zeppelin badly, and _then_ I started thinking of a spell that would detect the notes of another song already played, and from there it kinda snowballed into my algorithm.”

Jared smiles softly, ecstatic at the new details he’s learned about Richard’s life. He pictures a smaller, more pimpled Richard running around innocently with wands terrorizing the faire, and his heart beats faster. “Richard, that’s amazing. The whole of Pied Piper, your compression algorithm, your wild journey of success, the grim lows and the thrushing highs of our business in Silicon Valley—all built on a conversation between, as it seems to me, two very close friends.”

“Yeah,” Richard kind of laughs, remembering Andy. “I mean, it’s also where the name came from. Y’know, Pied Piper. It’s medieval. That and it was the name of the main nemesis in the D&D campaign Andy ran.” He makes another stifled awkward laugh. He’s embarrassed to be telling Jared all of this, embarrassed to be around Jared when he did nothing to help him. _Jesus_ , Richard thinks. _You’re such a fucking weirdo. Asshole weirdo retard jerk._

“You played D&D?” Jared laughs. “That’s so funny! I never played myself, but my ex-boyfriend was really into it—”

Richard freezes, feels his face flush. “I’m sorry, ex-boyfriend? You’re—you’re gay? But the girls, and the women, and the fucking—”

“Bisexual, actually,” Jared corrects. He lets out a light, breezy laugh. “After all, Richard, I went to Vassar.”

Before Richard has time to even consider _what_ exactly that means, a heavy bearded man appears suddenly from behind a tent, wearing a costume adorned with fur and large wrapped headscarf. Both the boys jump back in surprise. “Good god!” He exclaims, matching their surprise. “I did not mean to startle you two good gentlefolk, but I must say I noticed the shadows of your stature! Could it, possibly… you have kings blood amongst you?”

Richard and Jared look at each other, then look back at the almost dwarfish, but certainly boisterous, shrub of a man. He approaches and says, “Why, it can’t be! Those mighty legs…. that charming hair… the tenor of your stance… the scale of your shouldesr…”

Richard humbly blushes, perks up his spine, and wiggles his arms a little. He opens his mouth to speak, then— 

“YOU must be the king!” He says, and gestures towards Jared.

_Uh._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (an: the dude who just appeared is named Tim Harry and he looks like Brian Blessed. If you don't know who that is then get da hell out of here.)
> 
> (another an: the Original Renaissance Pleasure Faire in Irwindale, California is 100% a real thing and also 100% not the most historically accurate faire in the world.)
> 
> (another another an: I totally stole the "of course I'm gay I went to Vassar" from @Beefmaster's "A Good Man is Hard to Find", because I can't get over how it is both completely the gayest and most Jared thing to say. Also the story's Sufjan Steven's song title makes it even gayer.)


	4. The Part Where Richard Gets Corrected

Richard genuinely tries not to sound defensive. “Uh, I’m sorry, what?”

“Your companion! He has all the aspects of a kingly creature!”

Jared shrugs and smiles. Richard thinks, _I’ve been known to be called ‘kingly’ before_ , but goes “Yeah, okay.”

The short man continues. “Why! He must get to the royal quarters at once! The joust is about to commence!” 

“Oh!” Jared exclaims. “A joust! And just to be clear, _I’m_ the king?”

“There is no doubt in my mind that _you_ are the righteous heir to the throne!”

Jared giggles, genuinely giggles, and Richard takes a confused gulp. The man starts to walk and says, “Come! Come!” and Richard and Jared follow behind, the latter with a strange spring in his step. 

“Can you believe it Richard? Me! King!” He twitters again as they walk at a fast-based speed to follow the darting man, leading them back onto the main path and through the masses congregating outside the tents.

“Yeah, that sounds really great, um, do you know what the king gets to do exactly?” Richard truly tries not to sound defensive. 

“In general, he gets to collect taxes in exchange for providing a peaceful country and enforcing the laws in place,” he pauses. “I hope I won’t enforce any fatal laws after the jousting match.”

“No, that doesn’t happen,” Richard says, increasingly perplexed with this non-threatening serial killer of a semi-human. “Um, I mean, most times you just watch the match…” 

“Oh, who would have thought I would be watching the match _as a king,”_ Jared titters again, “Oh! I can’t wait to see the royal vestments!”

And sure enough, Jared is being dressed in a long, velvet, deep purple coat with ermine fur on the edges, extra on his shoulders. The back of the coat has small, delicate stars stitched all over the indigo sky, while the front is opened to expose a dazzling lavender-and-gold cotehardie, the golden patterned details veritably shining, aureate buttons reaching to the top of his neck. Then they drop down to more simply patterned dark blue hose, which come down remarkably to the length of his ankles, on which he sports leather riding boots.

Richard blinks. A few hundred times. He shakes his head and notes, “They really went all out for the outfit, didn’t they. Probably what they budgeted out over the actors,” he mumble-chuckles. 

Jared is just grinning and seems to be in a state of perpetual laughter. “It’s just like _Pretty Woman_!” he dry sobs, and Richard is afraid that there might be water coming out of Jared’s blue eyes.

“I know; you said that before. Did you, um, did you find out anything else the king gets to do while they were dressing you?”

Jared still looks in complete and utter bliss. “Oh, I think Timothy was saying something about a feast later, that I should be able to let out my breeches…” An excited laugh bubbles over. “What would Julia Roberts say about this?” He takes an excruciating deep breath in. “Oh, Donald, how far you’ve come!” and he holds back tears as best he can, which involves a series of dry sucking noises. 

Richard nods and keeps nodding, and says “Yeah, okay, that sounds good. You look very happy Jared,” and he smiles and tries be genuine, he really does, but he’s worried he’s failing. After all, his whole _thing_ has been renaissance fairs ever since high school. He’s seen this happen a couple times, usually during special events (is it Arbor Day already?) and had always wished, in his scrawny and jerky fifteen-year-old body, that _he_ would be the one picked, _he_ could finally be king. And dammit, he really wanted to get a feast. 

Timothy enters from outside the tent and says, “Now there’s a proper dashing young lad! My gentle lord, we must don you with some maquillage before you are to be lead to the jousting tournament.” A few women dressed lazily in semi-colonial clothes and carrying brushes lead him to a mirror and then engulf him in fussing his hair.

Richard can hear Jared’s few giggles and chattering to the women across the room, but he’s alone with Timothy for now. Richard starts. “Uh-hum, so—your name is Timothy?”

Timothy buzzes around to face Richard. “Right indeed! I also respond well to Tim.”

“Alright, Tim. Cool. Cool. Yeah. What you’re doing for Jared is really cool. He needs more stuff like this.” 

Tim chuckles. “I suspected as much, what with that burlap sack over his figure.”

 “Yeah, well, what he was wearing before kind of didn’t fit within the period, at all, and it would have just drawn unnecessary attention, and historical accuracy is really important to me—”

“And an unflattering burlap potato sack really has much better wonders about a man’s character.” Tim cocks an eyebrow at an impressive angle. “Is he your companion?”

“Yeah, I mean—no, it’s not—Jared’s my friend.”

“I see,” says Tim, and he strokes his brackety bushed beard.

“It’s actually pretty funny how it worked out,” Richard attempts to continue, ignoring whatever perceived hostility Tim has towards him. “You know, I brought Jared here after my other friend canceled. It’s his first time at a RenFair. Ha-ha, right? However, I’ve been going to RenFairs all my life, and it’s kind of my thing, y’know?”

“There isn’t much humorous about that statement,” Tim responds.

Richard disregards him entirely. “And—well, this is actual funny part, _I_ thought _you_ were talking about _me_ being king, on the account of you know, my houppelande.”

Tim looks at him curiously. “What, pray tell, are you blathering about?”

“My—my outfit, you know, it’s kind of a ‘courtly’ garment, y’know, kind of ‘royal’.”

 Tim scoffs and chortles simultaneously. “ _That_ is rarely a kingly—nay, even princely garment to be robed in.”

Richard scoffs right back at him. “Ex—excuse me?" 

Tim turns to face him, shoulder matching shoulder at a slope. “Actually, that type of houppelande was rarely worn by those of royal lineage. It was much commonly worn by lesser members of the court, such as dukes, marquises, ladies in waiting, and fools.”

Richard is caught gaping, with his lower curling over his teeth in disgust. “Well—well—that’s not right.” He shakes his head. “The lady who sold it to me _said,_ promised me it was a prince’s cloak, and-and I think she would have some authority given she makes medieval garments for a living—”

“The lady who sold it to you knew how to sell,” replies Tim frankly, smugly. He clasps his hands on Richard’s elbows, reaching only slightly up. He smiles into Richard’s eyes and then just says “Ha!”, and bounces away.

Richard really doesn’t want to be angry right now, but here he is. What the fuck? What are the actors in this Fair’s _deal?_ Why can’t he just catch a fucking break? He needs to angrily pace, storming outside the tent for a good number of solid minutes before he flings the tent doors dramatically open to find there’s no one there. _Shit_ , he thinks. _They must have left without me_.

 By the time he gets to the jousting arena, the rafter seats are the only ones available. He hikes up them, and sits up facing Jared and the rest of the royal court. Tim has an elaborately constructed horn that probably has a microphone in it because it booms, “WELCOME, ONE AND ALL, TO THE JOUSTING MATCH!” 

The crowd goes up in a roar, yet Richard can barely muster a clap.

“Before we begin, I am obliged to introduce to you the King de la Journée…” Tim’s face crosses, and he turns and mumbles something to Jared. 

“It’s Donald,” Jared beams out, chest puffed, never prouder of anything he’s ever said in his life. 

“Oh, under our extraneous political climate, that won’t do.” The small man shakes his head. “What did your friend call you?”

“Oh, Jared, sir.”

“KIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIING JAAAAAAAREEEEEED!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think one of the reasons I like to dress Jared up so much is because Zack Woods looks like a paper doll model. Sue me. 
> 
> The part where Jared has on riding boots is a direct reference to Margaret Atwood's "Liking Men" because I am determined to elevate this genre to the next level. [me banging pots and pans at 2am to channel atwood's spirit: IT'S TIME TO START LIKING MEN AGAIN!]
> 
> Also I've been to like one renaissance fair in my life so I don't know if the "king for a day" thing is a thing but let's just pretend it is so the story works okay? Thanks.


	5. The Part Where They Feast

The jousting match goes off without a hitch, and Jared crowns a comically wounded actor as champion. They do a couple other games too, which are all stupid, Richard thinks. Running around and catching a pig for a hunt. Pft. Totally not what the real royals would have done 500 years ago.

One short stop to the clothing vendor and a very interesting conversation later, Jared is being carried on a lectica throughout the Faire whilst waving to the crowd, beneath him four burly men. Richard tries and trails along with the court, who are greeting people in character with all the enthusiasm that moving out to Hollywood to make it big and ending up in Irwindale can give them, all the while Richard scowling and mumbling to himself about the veritability of their performance.

He does turn his cell phone on in the march to contest the accuracy of Tim’s accusation. He fails because he has no service. Dammit.

The parade leads into a great feast once the sun sets, which is just craft services going ham on all the overpriced food the overpriced vendors failed to sell that day. And apparently, the crowd was not having it today and left for McDonalds because the feast is magnificent. There’s honey roasted ham sliced so that you can see the thick layer of syrup on top, mashed potatoes with just the right ratio of skins to mash, sweet corn glistening with butter, carrots cooked so beautifully and thoroughly the skin practically falls off, and a wild display of oranges, pomegranates, citrons, and grapes, all mixed together in elegant fruit cups. And of course, several jugs of mead. 

But then at the end of the table is all the cheap food the cheaply priced vendors failed to sail that day. And as said before, the people were feeling McDonalds. There are tupperwares of drying rice, crusty sandwiches, some cold hot dogs, even chillier hamburgers, rapidly deteriorating potato salads, and a few bruised whole apples and oranges in a failing wicker basket. There is also some cheap wine and half a keg of beer at the end. 

And of course, Jared is sitting at the head being congratulated by the veteran high court cast members who ran the joust and the fair. And of course, Richard is sitting the end, with some scrawny jesters, chattering handmaidens, and one very tired looking monk.

He scowls. Hoists some rice onto his place and begins shoveling it into his mouth, eyes all the while fixated on Jared who is being fed grapes by a particularly busty queen. A few times he catches Jared’s eye, and the king looks like he’s about to say something before being distracted by the members of the court. Mead is poured into a decorated chalice and Jared is drinking it, thinking It’s just sweeter wine, and I’m king, I can have a nice night, right? and why isn’t Richard here? Oh, I hope he isn’t thinking poorly of me for this…

Richard grabs a red cup from a stack and bitterly pours some wine. He takes a large swig, downing half of it in one gulp. “It’s not even that I’m mad at Jared for being king, like I’m happy for him or whatever,” he says to no one and also the monk. “It’s just that like, Renaissance Fairs are my thing and he just shows up one day in rags and gets to be king. Like you’d think they’d at least get someone who was already dressed nice, someone who looks like they’re trying to be here and has been here and would really appreciate the experience. Like, what the fuck?”

The monk grunts. Richard takes another drink.

“It’s not like Jared would make a good king either,” Richard spews. “He’d be like, ‘oh, you guys want my land? I’m not using it ‘cause I spend so much time doing my makeup. That’s cool, take it! You seem nice enough!’” A bad feeling turns itself over and Richard’s stomach and he gulps some more wine in response, knowing it won’t help but doing it to spite Jared somehow. 

The monk mumbles something incoherent, and Richard tilts his head in his direction, Jared still in his periphery. “You know, I don’t want be rude or anything, but do your actors go through a-a-a-a school to learn how to be complete dickholes? I mean,” he’s getting as much wine as he can in his system now, “Two—not one, but two—of your actors have been complainably, reportably even, complete a-a-asswipes to Jared and I,” another swig, “Like, is it just me or does everyone around here not know a goddamn thing about –goddamn—anything?”

The monk makes a vague noise of agreement, and Richard persists. “And this whole fucking fair has been far less than historically accurate anyways. I noticed at least 8 inconsistencies of the time period in the procession, 12 if you consider the year to be before 1492. I don’t know what the shit Andy was talking about, this place doesn’t care about historical accuracy.” He’s filling up the wine cup as he says this and now downs the entire serving.

“It’s such bullshit about the houppelande,” he grumbles. “It’s a fucking princely garment. I’ve seen drawings of princes wearing it. That guy is a bag of– he is a bag of dicks.” A small mouthful of wine on that.

“King Edward the II of England was a very fascinating king of the pre-Tudorian era,” the monk says clearly now apropos of nothing. “He was one of the few who never jousted, and he liked to do gardening work of and with the laborers. Quite unusual.”

“Yeah, sure.” Richard says. “Fine. Great. He probably wore fucking houppelandes.”

“He was quite a handsome king,” the monk continues. “Very attractive. After his niece and his fiancé-to-be Margaret died at age 6, he married the infamous Queen Isabella of France, which was very good for international relations with France, who they had been in war with recently. His squire Gaveston…”

And Richard lets the old man trail on, switching between brooding at his cup and brooding at Jared. Lucky bastard, he thinks. He debates whether to go over them himself, but decides it’s better to stew. 

It’s a few more drinks and a few more times that Jared has caught Richard glaring and Richard curtly glances away, stewing, before Jared stands up and loudly declares, “I desire to have the Archduke of House Hendricks in my court!” The nobles cheer and Richard stands up tersely from his seat, nearly stumbling back over the bench. He rolls his eyes to the monk, who has been explaining the intricacies of French and English ruling systems. “Fucking finally, am I right,” comments Richard, then paces over there.

“You’re not!” says the monk, but Richard doesn’t hear him and a fold-out chair is erected to accommodate him next to Jared in the court. Jared thrusts a stein of mead into his hand (which is quite difficult seeing how they are folded into his arms) and, leaning in, says, “Drink and be merry, my splendiferous companion, for tonight we dine like royalty!”

The court hollers again, and Jared clinks Richard’s glass, puts an arm around his shoulder, and takes a drink. Richard follows, tensing into his support. “You know, Jared, I’ve been really meaning—like, really meaning to t—”

A bottle of whiskey is popped and it is poured into several shot glasses in the center of the table. Two are handed to Richard and Jared. They shoot. “Jared, this whole fucking court is—it’s total—”

“I love the way you say your king’s name,” Jared says, tilting in so that his and Richard’s flushed cheeks are almost touching. His voice is lower, rougher, it cracks over the syllables. “King Jared. It has a nice ring to it.”

Richard is entirely unsure what to do with this situation, except blush harder. “List-li-listen—”

“Say it,” Jared slurs, crystal cobalt eyes gazing playfully into Richard’s own. “Say I’m the king.”

Richard is caught. Opens mouth. Shuts it. Blinks. Stammers, “I’m-I’m—Jared, I think—”

But the crowd roars again and they all take a swig (one can divine they’re playing some sort of card-based drinking game in the background with Tim leading; neither of them take much notice) Jared included, and Richard delayed. He gulps with it, tries to collect himself, shake himself into what he wants to get across to his tall, commanding, well-dressed, strikingly handsome friend and former CTO—

Jared whispers in his ear, and Richard can’t help the shivers. “You know, you were asking me about my courtly duties earlier, and I was thinking…”

Richard turns his body so that he is nearly nose-to-nose with Jared, not daring to glance up in those eyes, and Jared’s arm slides off Richard’s should so that his palm drops down to Richard’s hand on his lap. Richard doesn’t move it. 

“Yeah, Jared, I’ve been, I’ve been thinking too. Yeah, thinking. I think we need to talk,” he says, jabbing his finger in anger and having it land on Jared’s chest a couple of times. “About this whole fucking fair.”

Jared’s face devilishly sweetens, and says, “Yes, my lord, please.” He runs his thumb over the bones on Richard’s hand. Richard involuntarily gulps. “Let us discuss these… regal matters in more private chambers.”

And Richard thinks, Finally, away from all these carnie fuckers, and follows Jared’s hand outside the crowd, outside the tent, and into the night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry it took a minute to get this one up! The first few were written in a just-prescribed-wellbutrin-and-on-spring-break-daze, and it was kinda hard to match that energy. Anyways! We're finally getting to the nice and dirty stuff folks. Strap on in. It only took 7000 words!


End file.
